


A Legacy of Ash and Blood

by AncientCovenants



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Insomnia, Multi, Writing Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:55:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25635415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AncientCovenants/pseuds/AncientCovenants
Summary: Those who bottle up their emotions usually crack and break... he was no different.A vicious cycle of nightmares and insomnia haunts Alex Manes until he reaches the tipping point.
Relationships: Alex Manes & Kyle Valenti, Alex Manes & Liz Ortecho, Maria DeLuca & Alex Manes, Michael Guerin & Alex Manes
Comments: 5
Kudos: 24





	A Legacy of Ash and Blood

**Author's Note:**

> What a crazy random happenstance that I happen to finish editing this on about six hours of sleep for the last three days combined... insomnia sucks.
> 
> Anyway, I wrote most of this 'round about the middle of Roswell, New Mexico season 2 so I didn't change anything to fit the latter half of the season's revelations. The prompt was, “I’m haunted by ghosts of the people my father killed.” And, well, Jesse and Harlan Manes... need I say more?
> 
> I'm gonna go back and try to finish chapter 3 of Red Sky at Night now because I've been stuck on it for like, what, a month and a half? Maybe having taken a break from it will help. Wish me luck!

The flames crackled high in the chilled desert night, wisps of smoke carrying bright embers into the darkness of the sky.

“The boy…”

It was barely a whisper in the wind yet it was heard in his very bones.

And before he could think, he was moving, the acrid scent of burning wood and metal and…

And it wasn’t metal that burned in the air.

He knew that scent, could never forget it…

The smell of burning blood and flesh and bone…

It blazed and choked and pressed in on him from all sides, tighter and more cloying than he could bear…

Was _he_ the boy that died?

The air was filled with fire and shimmering light and smoke and ash and he had to keep moving.

One step in front of the other, closer and closer…

The box still burned but maybe, _just maybe,_ the boy was inside, safe.

He grabbed the lid, bare hands blistering from the heat and pushed it up and open…

The smell of charred hair assaulted his senses. He could smell it, taste it, see it…

Curls.

Suddenly the wood was metal and he heaved it to the side.

Blood and burns and death.

There was nothing left.

Because he stayed.

Acid and bile found its way to his throat, threatening to choke him.

* * *

He rose from the coffin of his covers and heaved in a great lungful of air.

He couldn’t breathe, yet his heart threatened to burst out of its cage.

He grabbed at it, trying desperately to shove it back in, to stop its macabre dance…

He drudged in another breath of air. And another. And another.

The dance began to wind down.

He found the hand not holding his heart’s cage closed and ran it down his face.

It was wet.

He hadn’t cried in a long time, especially not in anything but pain, yet his hand was damp and his lashes began to clump together as he blinked.

And suddenly it wasn’t the dream he couldn’t breathe from, rather the great sobs that heaved from his soul as he lost his battle against the great wave of emotion that threatened to drown him.

He brought a leg up to his chest and curled up, as best he could and let all the anger, the sorrow, the frustration…

The desolation, the loneliness…

Flow through him, straight from the gaping void where his heart used to be.

Body spent from exhaustion, his mind would not let him rest.

For there was no rest for the wicked.

* * *

Colour and light bled into a blur, then danced away into focus again, nothing particularly of interest. Bottles of coloured liquids and labels met his gaze and offered nothing in return.

“You look horrible.”

He rolled his eyes, flashing a sarcastic smile.

“ _Thanks,_ Maria.”

She smiled back in greeting before concern overtook her face.

“I’m serious. Are you okay? When was the last time you slept?”

“Last night.”

“Uh-huh.”

From her look, she clearly wasn’t buying what he was selling so, instead, he offered her a morsel of truth.

“It’s still Tuesday, right?”

Her eyes widened.

“You haven’t slept for _two days?_ ”

He shrugged.

“Sleep is overrated. Too much to do.”

She raised an eyebrow, challenging him to find a suitable answer.

“Like what?”

“Like…” he grasped, instead, for at least a plausible one. “Music.”

The look that told him he’d be awful at sales was back.

“You’re trying to tell me you get so inspired in the middle of the night, you forget to sleep?”

“Something like that.”

“You are a _terrible_ liar.”

“Look, I’m fine. Just a few nightmares is all. No big deal.” Concern shadowed her features. “I’ve dealt with them before, and I’ll deal with them again. Just drop it.” He wished he hadn't put that look there. “Please?”

* * *

“What happened to you?”

“I went to war. And you?”

“Touché.”

The doctor raised his hands in surrender, not even bothering to mention the 30-hour shift he’d just come from as he joined him in the booth.

They sat in silence, the comfort stretching and pulling, a worn hair tie threatening to break.

“Seriously though, you look like hell.”

He sighed.

“I’m _fine…_ nothing I can’t handle.”

“ _Okay…_ ” His companion shuffled closer, arms on the table between them, bracing, as his voice lowered to a whisper of open honesty. “You know you don’t have to handle it alone, right?”

* * *

A woman without hair stood in a cell, behind a wall of bulletproof glass.

On his side of the glass, stood a line of men in military fatigues, standing at rest.

She spoke, a single word weighed with pain, despair and accusation.

“ _Why?_ ”

The man in front stood at attention and answered.

“It’s what Manes men do.”

He turned to smoke and vanished.

Once again, she uttered the word, laced now with frustration as well.

“Why?!”

The man in front of the line stood at attention and answered.

“It’s what Manes men do.”

He too turned to smoke and vanished.

He was in line. In their line. When she asked he would have to answer and he couldn’t… he didn’t want…

She asked again, frustration turned to rage.

“ _Why?!_ ”

His father stood in front of the line and answered.

“It’s what Manes men do.”

In smoke, he vanished.

It was his turn. He stepped up to the front of the line.

He didn’t want to answer. It wasn’t his fault, he hadn’t wanted any of this, _didn’t_ want any of this…

The woman’s anger faded.

Instead of accusing him like she had his forefathers, she simply asked, the last vestiges of hope leaving her with that final breath.

“Why?”

He couldn’t just stand there. He had to move, had to find something to break the glass.

_The alarms started to blare…_

No, no, please, not now.

_Were they getting louder?_

Anything, maybe his weight would be enough?

_They were screeching, screaming, crying out…_

She was going to die and it was all his fault…

He met her eyes, his shining with tears.

“Because… it’s what Manes men do.”

And as he was released from his physical form in a wisp of smoke, the building started to shake and crumble as a roaring light started to encompass the room, hundreds, if not thousands, of unseen voices shrieking and weeping and begging and pleading…

* * *

The colours were his antithesis, seeming to dance more and more these days.

“Alex…”

He blinked and they snapped back to attention as spare condiment bottles and napkin containers on a shelf behind the counter.

“Hmm?”

She looked at him and he held still as her dark eyes seemed to read him straight to his soul.

A hand on his, head tilted to the side.

“You know you can always talk to me, right?”

A pair of silly, glitter-covered foam ball on wire antennae bounced overhead.

“Yeah. Thanks.” He patted her hand in what he hoped was reassurance. “I gotta go.”

* * *

Wisps of smoke carried bright embers into the endless abyss of sky.

Only those weren’t embers…

They were sparks.

He blinked, lashes clumping together.

Was he crying?

Why was everything red?

“Alex? Alex?!”

He couldn’t be here, not here, not _him…_

_“No…”_

“Hey, stay with me…”

The irony wasn’t lost on him. Or was it coincidence? Thoughts flittered through his head faster than he could reach out and touch them. Only a heavy, dread-like feeling weighed him down, lest he fly off with his thoughts and disappear.

It was his fault. His name, his legacy, his _fault…_

“What did I do?”

“You fell asleep behind the wheel, ran into a light pole. Come on!”

His seat belt clicked off of its own accord and he was dragged from his truck by strong, insistent arms.

He… he didn’t deserve this. Couldn’t he _see?_ He was still trying to save him even though he didn’t _deserve_ saving…

“I’m sorry!”

And it worked. The arms stopped pulling.

Instead, searing braces wrapped around his upper arms and chest.

“What are you talking about?”

He reached up to grab at them, uncertain whether it was to pry them away or to thank them.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry. I-I know that actions speak louder than words but I can’t…”

He was flying apart and the braces, with their offering of absolution, were the only things holding him together…

All he had to do was _confess…_

“I can never do enough.”

“Does—” Terror spiked through him as they loosened their grip, ever so slightly. “Does this have anything to do with why you haven’t been sleeping lately?”

He scrambled, fingers desperately clutching at them.

All he had to do was confess, confess and the braces would do the rest…

“They won’t stop—they won’t stop coming…”

Hearing his silent pleas, they tightened their grasp.

“Who won’t stop?”

“The dead… your family…”

It was his family’s legacy.

It was _his_ legacy.

_A legacy of ash and blood._

“I’m haunted by ghosts of the people my fathers killed.”


End file.
